When I exhale fully and sink into the blissful embrace of hot water, the thick edge of the concrete bathtub sits just below the horizon, making it appear as if Bass Strait is just beyond my toes. Having grown up under drought restrictions, I find that a bath always feels like a luxury, a lavish exercise best stretched over hours to offset the guilt of using so much water.
At the opulent Kittawa Lodge on Tasmania’s King Island, reached by a one-hour flight from Melbourne, bathing is part of my self-implemented, unstructured wellness regimen, designed to press pause, to create space to examine the “before” and craft the “after”, with no interruptions.
My suitcase weighs heavy with pyjamas, books, watercolours and a deep, intrinsic rumbling of the soul. Getting here was a matter of “stop now or be stopped”, a battle of wills between brain and body. And so, the bath.
Evening soaks co-ordinate perfectly with the western shore’s famous sunsets: pastel eruptions of peach, mauve and carnation pink that bring the landscape into crisp focus.
These baths don’t go to waste, Kittawa Lodge’s co-owner, Aaron Suine, tells me. They’re fed by rainwater and spring water that’s flowed here for about 6000 years, and the grey water feeds back into the underground septic system buried in the ancient dunes, which naturally filter the water before it slips back out to sea. “Look out there,” Suine says, as we peer over the coastline from my lodge’s deck one afternoon. “That’s where it’s all ultimately going and that’s why it’s so important.”
The air here is some of the cleanest on the planet, with wind gusts of up to 100km/h. Kittawa’s spring water is rich with calcium and magnesium, and that makes my bath salts – a custom Epsom blend featuring dried native flowers foraged nearby – even more nourishing against wind-slapped skin.
Suine and his husband, Nick Stead, crafted Kittawa Lodge, which has one two-bedroom and two one-bedroom residences, over the past 10 years. A stay here is a refined expression of conscious details, like the handwritten note alongside a Mediterranean-style salad topped with local porterhouse steak, which is waiting for me on my table when I return from walking in the rain along 800 metres of private waterfront, much of it characterised by jagged black granite and spongy moss.
It’s also in the Tasmania-centric bar, heavy on the sparkling, and in croissants made by baker-turned-guest services manager Leah, who leaves fresh crescents hanging on the door in the early hours.
Beyond Kittawa’s 39 hectares is an agriculture-proud island known for its beef and cheese or, rather, its milk. King Island Dairy, one of the country’s oldest, was established on the island more than 120 years ago, and recently returned to Australian ownership.
The island has a rich history of kelp farming and seaweed art, tragic shipwrecks and world-class golf courses (the Cape Wickham Golf Links is consistently ranked in Australia’s top two). In Currie, the island’s largest town and de facto capital, the Restaurant With No Food – a boathouse turned gathering place with a view of the sea – is busy with locals eating brown-bag lunches and chatting.
Black Angus and patchwork Hereford cattle dot the undulating island’s 1000-square-kilometre, yellow-green terrain, and birds – more than 200 species, many of them migratory – flit across unending sky.
Then there are the wallabies, about half a million across the island. They’re solitary and habitual creatures, which feels apt and serendipitous. As I fold poached pears and cranberry-studded granola over yoghurt in a handmade bowl, a wallaby mirrors me outside, foraging through bower spinach to pluck off bright red berries.
As we each pause to nibble on both sides of the glass, a shared moment of mutual curiosity unfolds. We make eye contact and keep it, and I’m reminded of our human tendency towards overcomplication.
The weather shifts three times between blinks and I witness a rainbow arc over the sea, framing the wallaby as she assesses me, takes two hops towards a wind-shielding bush, and drops on her side. She stretches her legs and rests her head on her arm, fronds shading her face.
Her eyes close, chased by the slowing rise and fall of her belly. The ocean lashes below, the juvenile Pacific gulls blitz by recklessly, and she sinks deeper into carefree slumber. The world can wait, she demonstrates.
Taking my cue, I surrender to the peace and run another bath. The exhale comes easier this time. The world, of course, can wait.
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Riley Wilson is a freelance journalist and editor specialising in travel, food, architecture and agriculture. She is a former desk editor at The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age, and the creator of the Greater Good newsletter.Connect via email.
